by Sarah Walton
‘How much is a killing?’
‘Set you up for life if one of those old fellows takes a liking to yer. Not many years left on him the way he swigs back the grog.’
There’s loads of ways to earn a living in the city, but how many can set a boy up for life… and get you a ticket into the Library?
‘Not my type; I couldn’t stand the chat. Hard work in other ways too, being tied down to one fella. But if you can stand all the bullshit…’ Croc glances up at me from where he’s squatting. Cups clatter as he pushes them in the hole.
‘He asked about you. Wanted to know if you was Greek. Like the idea of having a Greek those old Romans do…’ Has Turk put Croc up to sussing me out? No, he won’t have gone near Turk with those cups. I trust him.
I give him a shove. He wobbles, but keeps his footing and laughs. Croc’s stable as a goat at ground level.
‘Don’t mention anything to Turk about the job. This is our own little earner, got it?’
‘But what about the rules?’
‘Since when has Turk kept to the rules? But he mustn’t find out. Don’t want my bones dangling over the entrance to the Necropalace.’
I thought they were old Egyptian bones. A shiver runs through me. I want to get out of here and into the sunshine. I squat down and help Croc push a large limestone block in front of the hole.
‘That should do it. Let’s go.’
It’s good to feel the sun warm on my face. Croc points with his knife towards the Agora and nods. ‘The Agora at sunset, Rufius said.’
‘But won’t the old cinaedus tell Turk?’ Saying the word feels bad. Dad used to clip me round the ear if he heard me say it. That’s a serious insult. Don’t let me hear that word pass from your lips again. I got the same when I called widow Leila a cunt; she’d hit me so hard I was bruised for days after. Never thought I’d miss being told-off.
A rustle from a bush makes us turn.
‘Tell Turk what?’ That’s Lanky’s voice, thick with menace.
The hard blade of a knife’s at my throat.
Croc’s eyes are wide with surprise. He’s not laughing. I knew there was someone in that bush.
‘Lanky, man!’
It’s hopeless struggling; he’s stronger than me. Lanky tightens his grip and presses the blade against my throat. Must stay still as I can. All my focus is on the knife.
‘Get off him, Lanky. This is my gig.’
He’s a demon, the lanky one. Kiya’s words float back like from a dream. Dunno about demon, but he’s a thief and he has my copper I earned fair and square last night. I’m not paying rent for sleeping rough on night-watch.
Lanky yanks my arm higher up my back. ‘Ah! You’re gonna break my arm. Let me go.’
‘I’m in, or I tell Turk and slit Pretty’s throat.’
Croc’s shoulders slump. ‘Man, let him go. You’ll get a cut of the gold.’
Lanky lowers the blade and shoves me away.
‘You don’t have any choice you little shits. A whiff of this and Turk will hang your bones above the entrance to the Necropalace.’
Now I’m free, the anger heats up my face. I want to hit him.
‘So, what’s the deal?’
‘Meet me at the Library warehouses on the docks tonight, after yer done the rounds down Venus Street.’
‘What you got there, Pretty?’ Lanky whips the knife out of my belt.
‘Give it back.’ I jump on his back, and scratch his face. Croc snatches the knife from his hand.
Lanky lunges forward, head to the ground and shakes me off his back. Can’t keep hold of his neck. Gravel scratches my face. Mouth’s full of sand, need to spit.
Lanky’s like a wild animal. He kicks me hard in the shin. He’s going for Croc – the force of his punch makes Croc fall backwards. Croc kicks and tries to reach his knife, but Lanky’s on top of him. Punch, slap. Punch, scratch. One more of those and Croc’ll lose his senses.
I scramble over to where my knife’s fallen, grab Lanky’s matted hair and pull his head back, knife to his neck like he did to me.
‘Let him go.’
Croc gives him a kick. It lands full on Lanky’s chest with a thud. The force of it sends Lanky falling backwards. Shit, I’m going down with him… turn to keep my footing. My knife catches Lanky’s mouth and slides through his cheek like slicing meat.
‘Arghhhh!’ Lanky reaches for his mouth.
Shit, I didn’t mean to cut him.
Croc pushes himself up from the ground, his mouth wide open in shock that I’ve hurt Lanky.
Lanky faces me; his hands tight over the right hand side of his face are covered with blood.
‘You’ll be worthless on Venus Street once I’ve finished with you, Pretty.’ Blood splutters from him mouth, hate in his mad, wild eyes. He stands, spits, then takes his hands away from his face and looks at them.
Croc shakes his head, dust flying from his hair, and jumps to his feet.
‘Lanky, man, it’s just a flesh wound. It’ll heal. Go and bathe it in the sea.’
Lanky looks at his hands covered in blood, then at me.
‘Come on, man; it’s just a scratch – there’ll be loads of gold knives you can pinch at the warehouse. No harm done.’
Lanky scowls at me. He’s in pain and I’m the cause of it, but I didn’t mean to cut him. ‘There’d better be treasure or you two will pay. I’ll start by cutting off your fingers and toes and make you watch as I feed them to the seagulls.’
My toes scrunch up at the thought of it. He means it.
‘Man, there’ll be so much treasure you’ll be ringleader after tonight; you’ll be richer than Turk.’
Lanky’s face changes at that, the idea of being the ringleader. ‘You two are fucked if there’s no treasure.’
We watch him walk off to the seawall, holding his face.
‘Man, there better be treasure in that warehouse.’ Croc’s not laughing.
10
Rufius
‘Apollinos?’ Through half-opened eyes I can see his long face furrowed in distress. How was he ever my body slave? My throat’s scratchy and my voice cracks, mouth parched and rancid. Hangovers are more torturous every year.
‘Master, wake up, master.’
Even squinting’s painful. I close my eyes against the rude sunlight from the balcony.
‘Go and bully some slaves. Let me sleep.’ The throb in my head is making my ears ring. I blame Apollinos for not watering my wine.
He props my head on a cushion and offers me a glass of water.
‘Mind the hair, dear.’ I swill and spit.
He clicks his fingers and a slave runs over with a mop.
‘You don’t know what’s happened, master.’
It sounds like I’m about to find out from the flap in his voice. ‘Unless it’s a fire or a Persian raid I’m not interested.’
Even sips of water hurt my throat. I smoked too much. Bah!
‘The Museum’s been robbed. That boy, he stole knives – your favourite, with the coral hilt, and…’
‘Get a good eyeful did you, dear? Have a wank too while you were spying?’ Jealous of my rough trade, Apollinos? Or relieved you’re too old for me now?
‘Master, we must inform the Museum Guard.’
‘We! Since when are you and I a we? Impudent slave.’
My bones creak as I lever my torso up on my elbow – if only it were possible to have one’s joints oiled like a squeaky hinge. I must have passed out on this couch. Memory scrambles after flickers of debauched scenes from last night. Blue eyes. Beautiful sapphire eyes as inaccessible as Sappho’s apple out of reach of the pickers.
‘Ah, but I didn’t take him home.’
‘But the street urchin. Master, he robbed you.’
‘Ah, yes, I took the one with the scaly skin.’ I remember now. The pimp was dangling the blue-eyed Greek like an apple. ‘The low hanging fruit was fun.’
My temples ache under the strain of a smile. Never mind, I do recall
Scaly and I made a deal of our own. What was his name? Fish? No, Crocodile, that was it. So, Crocodile fleeced us, did he? The rascal. ‘No need to inform the Library Guard, Apollinos.’
‘But, master…’
‘Enough, Apollinos! Bring me wine. My mouth’s as dry as the Nubian desert and you stand there bothering me with trifles. Ready the morning ritual.’
‘It’s past noon, master.’
‘What of it?’
‘Theon will be expecting you in his office, to discuss the arrangements for the welcome dinner he’s holding in your honour tonight, master.’
Theon, Theon. Name rings a bell.
‘The Head Librarian. And perhaps he should know about the theft… to avoid suspicion.’
‘I know who Theon is for Bacchus’ sake. And I decide what’s urgent, Apollinos. Things disappear all the time. There is no need for the Head Librarian to be informed.’ No doubt the boy has more need of silver than us.
‘Yes, master.’ The veins in Apollinos’ neck are bulging again. I’ve an urge to wring it.
‘Disturbs your sensibility, does it, Apollinos? I’ll replace the cursed cups, along with the rest of this ugly old furniture.’ The couch bleats out a long creak as I move my bare feet one at a time onto the floor. I don’t want anything that reminds me of my age. ‘But first there’s important shopping to do. I can’t be expected to make do with a secretary and these skinny Museum wretches, and you need some minions to bash about, Apollinos, if only to satisfy that pulsating neck of yours.’
Oh, I have to lie back down – let him stoop to shave me – I can’t manage an upright position with this stinking hangover. Apollinos arranges the blades, scrapers and tweezers in a neat row on the marble-topped table with the oils and kohl.
‘Please, master, stay still.’
He’s a bit rough as he wipes the smudged kohl from my brow and reapplies it. I hold my breath: for my eyebrows precision is essential.
‘Do you really mean to go through with your plan, master?’
Plan? What plan? He pronounced the word with disapproval. Come on, brain. ‘Plan, dear?’
Apollinos shoos the slaves from my office, cautious as ever.
‘Oh, yes! The plan.’ Now I’m sober, I’m not sure it’s such a brilliant idea after all… was it mine, or that scaly rascal’s?
Apollinos’ teeth grind with stress. Ha!
‘Shall I inform Theon you will meet with him?’
‘Bugger Theon! Bugger formalities!’
He clamps his jaw shut and looks straight ahead at the terrace. That’s it, Apollinos, dear: bite your tongue.
‘Ready my ride. We have shopping to do.’
‘Yes, master. I’ll inform Theon you have a headache – from the voyage.’
He slams the door in a strop. Moody slave.
‘Think yourself lucky you’re too old for me.’ The heavy silence of a well-practised sulk hangs in the air to irritate me.
The thought of shopping motivates me to stand and take a leak. By Bacchus, my piss sprinkles bright yellow over the balcony.
‘There is a toilet, master.’ Apollinos didn’t sulk for long.
‘Can’t I even piss in peace?’
What else do I need for my new entourage? It’s hopeless trying to concentrate with this raging hangover: each thought intensifies the painful throb at my temples. The only thing that gives me any relief is the memory of those sapphire eyes. Crocodile had better bring the Greek along with him tonight as we agreed.
‘I’ll ensure Theon’s slaves stock up on plenty of water for your wine at tonight’s dinner.’
You’re asking for it, boy. Take that! The spoon flies at him. Apollinos yelps and pushes his pelvis forward like a belly-dancer to avoid being hit. Ha!
Bah! So this is the famed Agora. The usual contest of trade, politics and religion: temple priests in jewelled diadems and flower-sellers croon, treasurers hurry slaves with scroll bags and scales, politicians spout monotonous rhetoric from their plinths. Prostitutes hug the corners of the arcades, boys lift their tunics and girls with acorns for tits arch their backs in contorted poses, as Christians toot apocalyptic crap to any mug morose enough to listen to how the world’s about to end. Why’s it so popular? The audience looks ready to slit their wrists after the sermon of doom.
‘Impressed, master?’
‘Alexandria’s Agora must house more temples than the Roman Forum, Apollinos. Grander, in a brash, modern way.’
‘Alexandria has 2,478 temples, 6,152 law courts, 1,561 baths, 456…’
‘Oh do shut up, Apollinos. If I want a tour guide, I’ll hire one.’
Alexandrians build high. Huge sphinxes stand at the entrance to Greek temples like sentries. The Roman buildings are newer. Bizarre: the Temple of Priapus is surrounded by a row of baboon statues; what’s the Egyptian god of writing have to do with that horny Roman god? At least they’ve not been shy about the size of the phalluses lining the walls. My buttocks clench at the sight.
‘This way, master, to the Temple of Antinous.’
The sun’s descent stains the portico in a pomegranate glow. Dear Bacchus, spare me from this dull huddle of academics, shoulders hunched from too many hours in the library, their jabber lapped up by doting students. The statue of Antinous, Hadrian’s deified lover, even looks bored towering above the couches.
So, which one of these windbags did the Archbishop bribe to secure my position? That one with the squint, perhaps? He stopped stuffing his face and pinned me under his gaze as soon as he saw us approach.
‘Considering it’s my welcome dinner, they could have waited.’
‘We’re hours late, master.’
He knows full well I had to repaint my eyebrows, curl my hair. Bah!
‘What’s the latest buzz then, Apollinos?’ I lower my voice as we approach.
‘Sorry, master?’
‘Schools of thought, Apollinos. I thought you were a literate slave?’
‘There have been some interesting developments in medicine and technology: the mending of fractured bones and a new version of Hero of Alexandria’s water powered engine.’
‘And in philosophy?’
‘Platonism still holds significant sway here.’
‘Perhaps Alexandria has its advantages.’ Why’s the slave hesitating?
‘… the current Archbishop of Alexandria is a Nicene like Damasus.’
‘Ha! There’s not another living soul on this earth like Damasus!’
Time to make an entrance.
‘Well, announce me, Apollinos.’
Apollinos clears his throat. ‘Rufius Biblus Catamitus.’
A man with an air of authority looks up, leaves his couch and walks towards me. This bore must be Theon.
‘Welcome, Rufius. I’m Theon.’ On first name terms are we? He’s knocked back a few the way he grabs my shoulders and kisses me on the lips. Two kisses is the custom in much of the Eastern Empire. I rather like it. ‘Forgive us, sir – our stomachs could not wait.’
Don’t try to impress me with the fluent Latin, dear. He has a gut on him. That’s good. And he likes the vine, by the look of the net of red veins over his cheeks. We might just get along.
Smells edible. Slaves carry out plates of steaming game.
‘I trust you had a safe journey and are recovered from your illness?’
Greek will do – to cut through this unnecessary linguistic etiquette. ‘Apart from the band of Persian pirates, and the crew’s mutiny, it was a very pleasant trip.’
Surely he’s not credulous enough to believe that? The flicker of disbelief in his bloodshot eyes turns into a hearty laugh. At least he’s got a sense of humour.
‘Come, Rufius, let me introduce you.’
‘Unless I meet some life amongst these dusty fellows, I might have to resort to fiction for the rest of the meal.’ At least most of their eyebrows are clipped in the tidy Roman fashion: not as provincial as I’d imagined… By Bacchus! Did Apollinos paint mine on today? Resist rubbing, Ru
fius: don’t smudge the kohl. Apollinos would never allow me to leave the house without my eyebrows. The slave’s hide isn’t tough enough to endure such a serious error.
‘Better get some wine down your gullet, Rufius, before you entertain the old bookworms! It’s a shame you missed my daughter. Hypatia will join the academy next year.’
‘I’ve heard your daughter is quite the mathematician.’
‘Indeed she is.’ He gestures to the statue of Antinous. ‘I hope you appreciate the choice of venue, Rufius?’
‘If I tire of these ravishing librarians, I can admire Hadrian’s boy.’
I chuckle at my mild sacrilege. So does Theon. He’s obviously not a Christian: they tend to keep their women ignorant and lack a sense of humour. I’d rather like him if it wasn’t for the sickening sense of duty he exudes.
Each man rises in turn and introduces himself. A couple of the young ones make intellectual small talk. If they were more attractive I’d humour them. A grunt will do.
Here’s squinty. ‘Titus Arius. A pleasure to meet you. I’ve not long left Rome myself.’ He licks his lips with the quickness of a lizard.
‘Titus is visiting us on official business from the Library of Constantinople.’
‘But a Roman, born and bred.’ What’s he holding my gaze for? I couldn’t care less where his mother spat him out of her womb. And with a face like a raisin, she most definitely did spit him out.
‘Well then, Roman, you will know that my stomach needs filling.’
Theon laughs and his minions join in. Thank Bacchus the niceties are out of the way.
Bugger it! Lizard-face has plonked himself on the couch next to me. Titus leans closer, flicks his tongue over his lips and whispers, ‘I’ve heard you’ve joined the book trade.’
No doubt about it, Titus must be one of Damasus’ spies. I dislike being under the Archbishop’s evil eye. Before I have a chance to respond, he leans back and says for all to hear, ‘Rufius, as the new Director of the Scriptorium perhaps you would be so kind as to give us your opinion on the sharing of books between Libraries? I was just about to suggest to Theon that Constantinople borrow some books for copying from Alexandria’s collection, but as you are now here…’